


golden threads laced together

by Wallowel



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Antarctic Anarchists, Antarctic Empire, Fluff, Gen, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Journal keeping, Pre-Butcher Army, Techno and Phil are just friends in this, This is my excuse to write old war buddies, friends who commit war crimes together retire together, philza is a grieving father, techno isn't good at comfort but tries his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallowel/pseuds/Wallowel
Summary: — Retirement for the Antarctic Anarchists brings peace to both Technoblade and Philza, however their lazy weekends slowly turn into a more in depth view of what each other has gone through. Journal writing brings the two a little closer, Philza's grief over his son's passing shedding a grim light onto the peaceful cabin.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Philza Minecraft
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	golden threads laced together

**Author's Note:**

> This was a writing exercise that my friends encouraged me to post! Just a simple prompt, kept to under 2k words, and something I could use to track my writing growth. I haven't written in a long time, but regardless I hope you enjoy this little drabble.

There was a lot to learn about a person by the way they write, however, when you’re draped over a sunkissed bed inside of an attic next to your best friend, there was little to have to focus on. Absentmindedly watching the man’s hand wrapped around a quill, the sharp end of the feather delicately dipped into the well of ink, Technoblade couldn’t think of a better way to spend a lazy weekend. It wasn’t far from the usual, the two had just fallen into the placidity of a domestic life, hand in hand, plunged into the cold tundra of peace. Turtle farms, bee hives, stables and farms had been constructed during this time, Phil’s cheery smile forever cemented into the ex-warlord’s weathered memory.

* * *

“You know, Phil, spending a thousand lifetimes with you isn’t so bad.”

“Feels all the same to me, Techno. Hush and go back to sleeping mate.”

“Don’t wanna fall asleep throughout my lifetime.”

“Is that possible now?”

The sudden murmur came from the man, still relaxing next to the diligent writer. Philza, the Angel of Death. An ethereal creature, life and death resting within the palms of his feather-spotted hands. Some legends say that you can tell your fate simply from his stare, the icy blue eyes screaming out for mercy or justice. Those unfortunate enough to cause him trouble knew their outcome, being cut down by his sword, watching him dance around the Blood God who shadowed his movements. The two had always performed as if it was their final dance, each step in line with each other as they waltzed through the battlefield. Air strikes, dynamite, arrows and tridents flew through the air, decorating the sky as if the tundra was their canvas, and they cursed painters damned to barrel through their own fates. They were a force to be reckoned with, Philza and Technoblade.

However, now the pair were spending their days relaxing in the sun baked cabin.

“I could, if we keep up at this pace.” Technoblade grumbled, flipping onto his side to watch Philza’s hand scribble out another sentence. The quill scratching against the rough paper was a pleasant sound, not too quiet, but not loud enough to ever irritate his incessant voices. The voices tended to enjoy anything done by the blonde avian, screaming and chanting for Philza at every turn. It was a welcomed change, the call for blood often pounding at the front of his head.

Voices aside, the avian simply shifted in his seat to glance at the grumbling ex-warlord. “I thought you wanted retirement, don’t let your bloodlust get too ahead of you, mate.” Phil chuckled lightly, quill placed adjacent to the ink well as he leaned back. “If you’re too bored, we can always take down a mansion or two.” Their thoughts always seemed to be in sync, the pigman only offering a huff of contemplation as response. Philza droned on, listing different tasks that the two had been putting off lately, yet none had particularly caught the attention of the pig. “Just resting next to you is enough, don’t worry about it.” Technoblade’s response incited no worry in the other, the two simply nodded and returned to their respective tasks: resting, and writing.

* * *

Philza’s journal wasn’t a complicated one. In fact, both of their personal journals had been similar. The binding strong, the leather cover etched with their initials, gold thread laced carefully through the edges of the pages. It had been a gift to Phil from Techno, during the Antarctic Empire days. Reminiscent of their time as emperors, conquerors, and lords over all things earthly, Philza couldn’t help but give a huff of laughter at how times have changed. The once all powerful dictator of the arctic had turned to a violently sweet anarchist, who cared more for the morals he once abandoned than power and glory. Wherever Technoblade had gone, Philza had promised to follow after him. They were both each other's shadows, stepping around the land-mines of conflict while maintaining total communication. Not a moment passed where they weren’t in understanding with each other, and Philza wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The journals were a reminder of that. However, pressed paper with gold trimming and expensive cured leather could never replace the worth that was the contents of the books. Philza’s thoughts, daily meanderings, strategies, and deepest fears lied within that book. It was the only thing he trusted to keep it safe, after all, it came from his best friend. Picking up the quill once again, clawed fingers dipped the black feather into the inkwell to begin scratching out more of his musings.

> _It’s a quiet day today. More than ever I’m grateful for the silence, it does Technoblade wonders. His headaches have lessened, and the cold doesn’t bother him as much anymore. It chills my feathers to the bone, but the cloaks are heavy enough to keep us warm for hours without needing to refuel the fire. ~~Wilbur~~ Ghostbur stopped by the other day. Something about needing a new pair of shears, and asking for scutes from Tech. The way he smiles hurts, like he’s almost there, but so out of reach. Did I do the right thing? Was there a right thing? Did I doom him from the start? _

It always ended like this. Philza’s hand trembled as he scratched through his son’s name, as if to solidify that he was dead and gone (by his own hand). Never out of resentment for the poor ghost, but out of shame for his own shortcomings with the bright musician and orator he called his son. His journal was covered front and back with memories of his beloved child, who floated absentmindedly around the very country that killed him. Resentment bubbled in the avian’s chest, fingers clenching the quill and listening to the soft cracks.

Technoblade knew that sound. He never drifted too far into unconsciousness, not when in a moment’s notice he could be surrounded by countless enemies. Only he didn’t worry for the physical entities, but the dark thoughts and pain that swirled around his other half’s head. Perhaps the ex-warlord was as deranged as the legends told, but he could feel Philza’s crushing anguish, hearing the pen creek and seeing the slight shivers along the avian’s wings. He watched for another moment, the black father wavering in the air melodically.

“Phil, do you want me to make some tea?”

“...Mm, I’ll get it later, Tech.” Philza’s mutter in response hit a pang in the pigman’s heart, fists clenching in frustration. Even as in sync as they were, he never could fight off Phil’s demons. The haunting grief clung and wrapped around the survivalist, guilt and shame riddled in his wavering smile. That smile never broke, the blonde making sure to keep his appearance as strong as possible in the presence of the other. Technoblade may have known the truth, but it didn't stop Philza from lying to himself time and time again.

Raising himself up, the pig slowly made his way towards the avian, placing a hand on his shoulder and averting his eyes from the journal. There was no need to know what was written, a silent agreement woven between the two that whatever it was, it was hurting Phil. “... You shouldn’t blame yourself, Phil. He was gone before we could save him.” His voice was barely above a whisper, as the pigman pulled Philza into a one-handed hug. Silence grew between them, the avian reaching up instinctively brushing the hair from Technoblade’s scarred face.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“One day, I will.”


End file.
